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Today is Easter Sunday. I fixed bacon and eggs for Olivia and myself. We were going to sit on the back patio, but the morning sun was in a pitiless mood and we retreated to the air-conditioning. While much is touted about Jesus Christ's resurrection and his victory over death, one of the least known accomplishments in the pantheon of supernatural feats was God's creation on the eighth day. The Garden of Eden, located in the Middle East, can get damn hot and God, despite his terrible temper, was a practical thinker. He blessed humanity by inventing air-conditioning. I think of God as the first Thomas Edison for lack of a better comparison. South Texas is grateful for his extra effort on our behalf.

It is early afternoon and my step-son Lorca is sleeping. He delivers food and works well into the night. He says he is wearing gloves and a mask, but I don't know. I don't inspect him as he comes and goes. He could prove the chink in our armor. Mick played video games all night and rose around noon. To celebrate Easter, I went to Whataburger and super-sized a number 13 with a large chocolate milk shake for him. Olivia bought a new push broom and decided to sweep the driveway clean of leaves in the late afternoon. As a result of her chronic back problems, she can't move after bending over to fill several large garbage bags with refuse. She is in the bedroom, seated in her favorite chair and reading. The dogs are curled at her feet.

How things have changed. In my youth Easter was an important holiday, ranked only behind Christmas, Thanksgiving and birthdays but ahead of Fourth of July and lesser celebrations like Memorial Day and Labor Day. While turkey was synonymous with Christmas and Thanksgiving, ham was synonymous with Easter. Both Christmas and Easter were synonymous with mass and mother made sure that Dad and the children were impeccably attired while she stayed at home and anxiously awaited the news on the comments our family had elicited when we entered church. There were times when my dad couldn't afford a car and we would pile into a taxi that would usher us to our divine destination. Dad and the boys wore gray pants with blue blazers and the girls dazzled in their demure dresses with ribbons fluttering from their long locks that fell perfectly on their shoulders.

With Coronavirus laying siege to our lives, this Easter Sunday will be no different from a Monday or a Wednesday in the middle of spring. Much like my Catholicism has ceased to have any meaning for me except as a melancholy memory, Easter has even less meaning. Did Jesus conquer death? I doubt it.

There will be some interaction between the four humans and the two animals that occupy this house, but for most part we will each keep our separate peace. When Mick was a child and Lorca and my step-daughter Karen weren't yet teenagers, Olivia would paint eggs and fill them with confetti. She would invite her parents to the house that will hold the mystique of home in our minds. She and I would hide the eggs in the backyard and then sit under a twisted mesquite with the grandparents while the three kids ran collecting the eggs in their baskets and then cracking them over the adults' heads. We would retire indoors where, a traditionalist as a result of my Catholic roots, I had prepared a ham that was annually applauded.

Unlike Jesus, if there is a scintilla of truth in the New Testament, we are condemned to dying. Whether or not we reemerge on the other side is an individual determination. But worse than death, are we condemned to sadness as we age and the stark realities of life become ever more frightening and disheartening? I live the instant in torment, knowing we're meant to be permanently dormant. I fear the worst, but like my father who couldn't bear looking at fading photographs, I try not to think too much. I do my best to relish each moment, breathing deeply before Coronavirus or another evil accomplice destroys my lungs.